


White Hot

by stardustspirals



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Gondolin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2018-02-10 15:59:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2031147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardustspirals/pseuds/stardustspirals
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sun Maeglin hungers for is not only light, but fire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	White Hot

When he leaves his father's home, the sun is blinding but it takes his breath. He realizes that he's never seen the reddish depths in his mother's hair, because the sun has not shone on it since he's had eyes to see.

When he arrives in the city, his breath catches at all the white marble, glaring in the sun. He has not felt so many eyes on him since his father introduced him to the Dwarves, but that setting had more shadow to calm him. Now, it feels as though he needs to shield his eyes from the expectant faces as much as from the sun.

When he sees her, he has never felt so hungry in his life. Something in him catches fire in a way he's never felt before. Something white hot is released under his skin, as if he's swallowed that sun he waited so many years to see.

When his mother is hit, he suddenly can't breathe, but no tears come, just dry choking. The next morning, the weight of Turgon's hand on his shoulder feels even heavier than whatever lies at the pit of his stomach.

When his father is put to death, he wants to say that he feels nothing. He wants to feel only hollow when he he hears the sound of Eöl's body hitting the rocks. But the reason he clenches his teeth and remains silent when told his father's life lies in his hands is that his rage chokes away the words. He doesn't even hear the curse for the rushing of blood in his ears.

When the Nirnaeth comes, he knows he will not die. He knows, with the certainty of only a young man, that he is too proud and too capable to die. To warm a king's throne while his father's sword remains clean feels like a waste of the fire Idril woke in his blood.

When Tuor comes, he knows. He knows that this will break him, somehow, that this will disrupt the life he's built here. That this man will take away the things that mean the most to him. And he knows that everyone will pay because of Turgon's acceptance of this man. He does not know why.

When Idril is married to Tuor, he clenches his jaw so tightly through the wedding that it's sore the next day. At least he has a convenient excuse for his cold behavior over the next few days; the headache is very real. Jealousy spreads beneath his skin, raw and tender like a bruise.

When Eärendil is born, he briefly thinks of killing the child. He knows where Idril lives, where she sleeps. He thinks of what the child might have looked like if he had been its father. That pale hair would be dark, or the eyes. Or both. But he cannot be a father, and he knows this. He weeps more bitterly the night of that child's birth than he has since the death of his own mother. 

When they catch him, he is terrified, and much later, in another life, he will be grateful that the historians were merciful. That they were not present to hear the way he spilled the information before being asked, the way he nearly shit himself in the presence of the enemy. The way the Lieutenant had to forcibly turn his head to make sure he looked in the Dark One's eyes. The way a nervous, relieved laugh escaped him when he was offered his reward, or the way it sounded more like a strangled animal than a laugh.

When they come, what the survivors will remember is more of that manic laughter as they all begin to realize that the red light isn't coming from the sun. He'll remember the way something ruptures within him when they come, when the built up pressure of the past hundred years will surface and his vision will fill with some blinding fury. Idril will remember the numbing panic of a mother whose child is being threatened, when she sees her son in his arms. Tuor will remember the satisfaction of throwing him off the wall.


End file.
